The Betrayal of Trust (38 page)

‘Should I talk to anyone else?’

‘That’s up to you. My own
feeling is that you should not – this is your decision, no one else’s. In any case, as the paper you will read and sign makes clear, you should under no circumstances talk to anyone about this consultation, or our clinic – this has to be totally confidential. Do you understand that fully?’

She understood. She understood that he was protecting himself, his staff, his clinic, that he could be prosecuted,
struck off the medical register, imprisoned – she did not know exactly. But it occurred to her that if she were to go out into the street now and telephone the police, she would be able to prove nothing.

She read the statement, signed it. He gave her a card with his telephone and email contact details. The telephone number was not the same as the one she had had previously. ‘I so dislike this
cloak-and-dagger,’ he said, ‘and roll on the day when it is no longer necessary.’

But it did not feel like cloak-and-dagger, she thought, walking out of the consulting room to her waiting taxi in the bright sunshine. It did not feel sordid, or backstreet. Illegal. Wrong. It felt right. She felt right.

She almost tripped, climbing into the back of the cab. She could no longer trust her body.
It was time to leave it.

FRANCES CADSDEN CAME
out of her front door wearing a tracksuit and carrying a sports bag as Simon stopped outside. She looked slightly annoyed.

‘It won’t take a minute.’

‘It’s just that I go to a fitness class and then I meet a friend for coffee. But of course, come in …’

‘No need. It’s only a couple of questions.’

‘About Harriet?’

‘She was musical. Played the piano, played the
clarinet.’

‘Oh yes, and loved them both, really did … she loved her music. Right from when she and Katie were first friends.’

‘Was she very talented?’

‘That’s hard to say. I’m not musical, Katie didn’t play any instrument so …’

‘Do you remember anything about her parents trying to stop her playing the piano?’

‘I do actually. You’d better come in, hadn’t you?’

No neighbours were about, no
one looked out from behind net curtains here. It was not that sort of road. But he had Frances Cadsden down as a dignified person who would not want to chat to anyone at all on her doorstep.

‘Yes,’ she said, putting down her sports bag, and closing the door, ‘we had talked about this – probably during the summer term. Harriet had been staying the night – it was a Saturday, she was only allowed
to stay on Saturdays during term – and
she
was saying there was a concert coming up and she had been asked to play her clarinet in part of it but she wasn’t sure she could because she didn’t have enough time to practise. Then she spilled it out about wanting to learn the guitar, wanting to do more music, wanting to go for Grade 8 piano, but her parents were against it. She got quite upset and
Katie was telling her to go for it, I was saying no – not just that, but at least maybe have another chat with her parents. It seemed such a pity. Don’t you think so? It still seems a pity to me. She was so good at music, so keen, and then to have them be so negative.’

‘Did they want her to give her music up?’

‘No, I don’t think so. But they said she was doing quite enough music, she had GCSEs
coming, she had to concentrate on her schoolwork, not on extra stuff. I think they saw music as “hobbies department”. A lot of parents do, don’t they? Sport, art, drama … all that. Nice hobbies, nothing to do with getting A grades and a good career.’

‘I know Katie didn’t play an instrument but is there any chance that you or she could remember who taught Harriet music?’

‘I wouldn’t know, I’m
afraid. I don’t suppose I ever knew. Katie might. They were pretty close at that age. Try asking Katie. All I know is that the whole subject was a bit of a bone of contention in the Lowther household. Poor Harriet.’ She looked down silently at her sports bag, and the bright, neat hall was filled at once with the memory of a blonde girl carrying a tennis racket.

Bevham General was like an airport,
he sometimes thought, with the all-important shopping mall, the check-in desks, the lifts, the uniforms, the people, the muzak, the big windows and the general hum. And upstairs, the quieter areas, where people waited. He had grown familiar with it over the times when Martha, his sister, had been in and out of emergency rooms and he had sat with her for hour after hour, talking to her, holding
her hand, drawing her. Waiting. She had always recovered somehow, always gone home, though home had not been Hallam House for years. But she had been happy in the nursing home,
loved
and spoiled. Until there had been one more crisis. Until their mother …

‘Is Katie Morris here?’ He showed his warrant card.

‘She’s in ICU. Is it urgent?’

‘Yes, but it will only take a minute.’

‘I’ll see. You may
have to wait. Relatives’ room?’

Not his favourite place. He had been in too many with the shocked and the suddenly bereaved, the traumatised and the fearful, as they sat grey-faced, holding someone’s hand, cups of tea left untouched, the air thick with grief and bewilderment.

But this one was empty. He looked out of the window onto the main forecourt where the ambulances were pulling in, unloading,
driving off. It was high up. The people walking about in white coats were like tiny figures on a child’s construction set, the cars toys.

His family had spent most of their lives here one way and another, his father in the old, small building long since demolished, an Edwardian house extended and expanded, with Nissan hut wards running at every angle. Cat had not trained here but had come back
to do her house jobs, where she had met Chris; Ivo had trained here before heading off to Australia the minute he qualified; Meriel had been on every committee and board, in her day the strongest force to be reckoned with.

What would it have been like if he had trained here, worked here too, a cardiac surgeon, an obstetrician – a bench scientist researching into vaccines, say? He had started
out, dutifully, on the family path, but always going against the grain, always feeling he was in the wrong place, among the wrong people, never enjoying a single day, a single aspect of it, always ill at ease, always looking round for his escape route.

‘Sorry you had to wait, I can’t spare you long.’

‘That’s fine. Thanks for finding a moment.’

‘What’s happened? You’ve found out something, haven’t
you? I can see it in your face.’

Could she? How? He was startled, never expecting to be so transparent.

‘It’s very possible, yes. And you can help, Katie.’

‘Anything. I was thinking about her only this morning, you know? Where would she be now, what would she be like? Would we have kept up? I think we would but you can never be sure.’

Simon sat opposite her on one of the Scandinavian-looking
chairs.

‘It’s this. Harriet was musical, played two instruments.’

‘Yes, piano and clarinet. I never quite got it, the music thing, typical Walkman-in-ears girl, me, but she liked playing more than anything. Piano best, but she wanted to try the guitar as well as the clarinet, only that wasn’t on, of course.’

‘Her parents weren’t keen, I gather.’

‘You could say. They wanted a little brainbox
though they pretended to be laid-back, but you could tell. They should have let her follow her own star. All parents should in my view.’

‘And mine. Do you remember who taught Harriet music?’

Katie smiled. ‘Mr Winder, the wind, er, instrument teacher.’

‘I heard that one. And piano?’

‘Miss … God, what was her name, what was her name? I can see her now. She lived with another woman. She never
taught me but Harriet got on really well with her because she was so good at the piano – star pupil. Yes, and I remember now – Harriet wanted to have extra lessons, you know, private ones, out of school time, but they wouldn’t have it.’

‘Her parents?’

‘No. God, it’s all coming back …’

Keep it coming, Simon thought, keep it coming, Katie. But he said nothing. She would recall better without
being pushed or prompted.

‘Harriet wanted extra piano lessons but that was no-go as well as the guitar – the Lowthers just put their foot down. But Harriet was one of those quiet people who can get quite stubborn, quite determined, and she told me she’d fixed up the lessons anyway. I think it was only one a week and she was going to the teacher’s house for them. She made me swear I wouldn’t say
anything – sweet, really. That’s not the kind of thing you usually swear not to tell about – extra music lessons!’

‘And she definitely didn’t tell her parents?’

‘Absolutely not.’ Katie looked thoughtful. ‘She just told me. My God, is this important? Is this something I should have remembered before and told you?’

‘You weren’t to know, Katie. The main thing is, you’ve remembered now.’

He did
not wait for the lift.

‘AGAAAAAGAAAAAGAAAAAGAAAAAGAAAAAGAAAAAGAAAAAGAAAAAAAAAAAA!
’

It was difficult to tell if the scream was of rage or pain. Molly had been helping with a check of the controlled drugs cabinet.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Don’t worry, it’s only Miss Mills.’

The screaming went on, and after a moment of listening intently, Sister Fison locked the cabinet and gestured Molly to follow her. ‘The
trouble is, they don’t like going to her so they always try and leave it to someone else – usually me – which means she gets worse and worse and then the other patients are upset. I wish they would just deal with it.’

She crossed into the small dining room where the early lunch was being served. Miss Mills was standing in the middle of the room holding her arms out and screaming what might have
been the name Agatha, now barely to be made out, in the high-pitched uninterrupted noise. She held a fork in her right hand.

The dining-room attendant was standing near the door looking bemused, two other patients huddled together, chairs pulled tight up to tables. One of the carers was reasoning with Olive but standing yards from her and glancing every few seconds towards the door.

‘Right,’
Moira Fison said, ‘Lorraine, get on with your job. Kelly, will you please help the others? – they’ve been left alone in fright and bewilderment and this must not happen. Go on.
Molly
, give me a hand, please. Olive, please put the fork down, you haven’t got your lunch plate yet. Let me have it.’ She took a single step to face the screaming woman and held out her hand. ‘You needn’t shout any more,
my dear, it’s all been dealt with. Just give me the fork and we can carry on with lunchtime as usual.’

Molly edged round until she was at Olive’s back, and waited. She could feel the heat of rage coming from Olive’s body.

Olive was still screaming. She ignored Moira and did not let go of the fork.

Molly reached up without warning, took Olive’s raised arm and pulled it swiftly down. Olive swung
round, her mouth open but the scream dying into silence.

‘Drop the fork on the floor,’ Molly said calmly.

Olive stared at her in bewilderment. Dropped the fork. Fell on Molly, arms out to be caught. Molly caught her.

‘Good,’ Moira Fison said, taking her other arm. ‘Well handled, Molly. Thank you. Now, just help me lead her out of here into the sitting room. The others will be having their lunch
in five minutes. We can’t do this here.’

‘What triggers it off?’

‘No idea. She does it a lot but sometimes this name, Agatha, comes out. No one knows who Agatha is. She can’t tell us, of course, but Miss Wilcox doesn’t know, either. That’s the other woman – partner, whatever you want to call it. Right, in here. Come on, Olive, don’t try and fight me. Take a firm grip on her arm, Molly.’

Years
ago, Molly’s youngest sister, Leonie, had had tantrums, which had started up for no apparent reason and involved similar hysterical screaming and aggression. Dealing with Olive was like dealing with the three-year-old.

‘Sit down here, Olive, we want you nice and calm. Can you roll up her sleeve? She doesn’t understand what you mean if you ask her to do it. I’ve rung the bell for my husband, he’s
on a call.’

Olive was quietening, her hand in Molly’s, her body trembling slightly. Molly stroked her arm and murmured to her. Leonie. Yes. It was the same. They had soothed Leonie in the same way
until
she had surfaced from her tantrum like someone waking from sleep.

‘It’s like reverting to childhood,’ she said.

Moira Fison shot her a look. ‘More troublesome though. Ah, here he is.’

She should
not find someone without a single hair on his head so unsettling. Molly had told herself that several times since she had started her three-day work experience. He had had alopecia. A disease. So what? Not his fault.

But it made her shudder. She was ashamed. She forced herself to look at him as he came into the room and not to look away at once. People must look away too often. Somehow, a head
bald because of disease was not the same as a head bald from choice. It was the smoothness of the skull, the way it shone. The complete absence of absolutely any hair at all, any down or blue-grey shadowing beneath the skin. So get over it, she thought. It could happen to you.

‘How long since the last time this happened?’ Leo Fison said, drawing up a syringe from a vial of liquid.

‘Two days.
It’s getting worse.’

‘Yes. I’ll up the morning and evening dosage and add another at two o’clock. Thank you, Molly, if you’d just hold her arm firmly. She doesn’t usually fight it though. Too exhausted with all the shouting.’

Speak to her, Molly wanted to say to him. Speak to her, look at her. She’s alive. She can hear you. She understands your tone of voice.

He drew the needle out. ‘OK. We
need to get her upstairs to bed straight away, Molly, it’s quick-acting. You support her on her right.’

Chemical cosh. It hardly seemed like the new revolutionary treatment for dementia sufferers, the talking, one-to-one therapy, the memory class, the constant support from fully trained, sympathetic staff. In the old days it had been the Brompton cocktail to keep them quiet. This was no better.
Molly was due a session going over her time here at the end of tomorrow. She planned to ask some questions.